Wobberjack! Book One: Skyrim's Tales of Sheogorath
by Paradox Dreams
Summary: It isn't everyday a Daedric God of Madness becomes Dragonborn- but with Jyggalag stripping his powers, he'll need every chance he gets to survive. Adventure! Romance! Cheese! Come, Heroes! To Skyrim!
1. Jeconais! Page One: Freefalling

I own nothing. Except possibly bioware and bethesda. Ah, daydreams.

For those of you that don't know, this covers the DLC where the hero becomes the new Daedric God of Madness in Oblivion, and goes into the newest top game on the RPG Market currently, Skyrim. Since nobody really bothered with going into the Hero of Skyrim's history before your execution date, and nobody really finds out what happens to Jyggalag's alter ego of madness when the Hero of Kvatch takes his place... I got creative. Not my best work, but prologues are rather annoying to write when switching from split personalities.

Hope you like it. If not, I'll come back in a few months and write something new again. -bows-

Daedric Gods: **I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!**

Shouts/Actions: **FIIK, LO, SAH!** _(Mirror, Deceive, Phantom!)_

Translations:_ {You Can't Be Serious.}_

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><p>"Really now, what the hell is he doing! I'm dying here! Well, not really, but this is exceedly DULL! Kill me already!" I proclaimed as only a slightly bemused 'god' of oblivion could, the spectacularly identity crisis driven entity... you guessed it! Daedric Prince Sheogorath.<p>

Originally faring from the broken afterlife these mortals falsely accused as hell, (Really, the Isles are a beautiful place to visit!) my last planar dimension had been ripped apart by my slightly order obsessed alter ego. Mind, I don't really care for the bloke, but I'll be damned if I don't give up my own identity without a fight.

Leaning on a small cane as I watched with glee from the clouded thoughts of Jyggalag, it was a beautiful fight right before my palace that captivated my attention. Each expression flashing from bewilderment to surprise, my staff weilded in the Hero of Kvatch's hands only made me swell with pride. Good show, haha!

BAM! Off goes Jyggalag, and swinging right under that irritating bastard sword, my champion blasted the god (Or...is that me? Blasted dual personality pronouns!) right off 'my' rocker. And oh the inhumanity, what a mess of things it made! At least I'd be back in my... hold on, it was over. Done. Finished! Why the OBLIVION am I still here!

The hero's opponent leaned heavily on one knee, shock rippling through his crystalline gauntlets in disbelief. A crackling, sizzing noise emitted from my Staff of Sheogorath, and time stood frozen still. Only for me to realize I was left alone, run ragged inside my own mind while Jyggalag took over my body. It was his but... I... I am Sheo! Lord of the Isles! I'd go mad! Or worse... chillingly SANE!

"Oh thieves knickers, no please no...Anything but tha-!"

The crash of daedric armor plummeting at my face rudely interrupted yours truly like a crack of lightning, furious beady eyes escaping the darkness as the white armor of the Prince of Order broke into view, both egos facing off in the void overlooking Jyggalag's defeat. A wrasping voice, dark and ominous filled the room as every inch of the massive threat to Oblivion scored off against the one adversary he could never defeat.

"Shut. The. Hell. Up. Trying to think, and your special brand of insanity is as much a mental eyesore as having my body stolen for millenia by my brothers and sisters."

"Family reunion then? Hello, 'Jyg. Come for the party?"

I barely avoided the hilt of his bastard sword for that one. Ooh, the skid of steel crackled in the empty air like nails on a chalkboard- what delicious fun. Still, given the rather enfuriated cold hate staring me right between the eyes, perhaps a little subtility was best to keep to. Have to keep up my boyish figure, and frankly that demands not pissing off the current higher power unless absolutely neccessary.

"...You have nothing left now, you know. The cycle has been broken, and this body is mine. But how to get my revenge...?"

I put on my best pout, a sneaky wink riddling the corner of my eye. No, the opportunity to press this chaotic knife between the ribs was all too wonderful an opportunity to waste. What's the point of having just watched yourself get beat up by something you helped arrange? Talk about your self destructive impulses.

"Make it better? Colorful? Sexy as sin? Well, if you believe that, I have a lovely piece of tail called Ma'iq the Liar..."

Pain. Oh, my. You know, immortality very rarely leaves inconvenience for being backhanded into some sort of mental wall, but I'l pretty sure the cracked ribs are quite real. Wasn't his ribs the knife pierced, but god does this god myself have a sense of bleeding irony.

Throbbing, burning like a pint of dwarven mead, a spill of daedric quicksilver coughs up from my lungs. How very mortal. Eugh. As if commenting from some unseen angle, Jyggalag's voice rocks through my head. Or maybe I just really am crazy and have some really bad masochistic and sadistic personalities.

"Mortal? And why not? You stole my LIFE, you god damn madman. Every day some odd occurance, hideous creation, or insufferable act of random volition that could have been used for bigger things. Greater things! Far greater than you. If the inconvenience of losing my existence isn't enough, then I'll be damned if I don't steal yours. Mortal sounds like a lovely plane to leave you in. Goodbye, 'Sheo'. May you lead an interesting life."

I pause. Twitch. My mouth opens in some furious gesture as I grasp for straws desperately, but only silence greets me, followed by a soft humming. The humming grows louder as I try to talk, coming up with nothing. Chanting, syllables and consonants pounding my eardrums, shouting words I can't begin to understand. And then, a blue sky. Fresh wind, gentle breeze. Not so bad.

Ah, much better. The sounds are gone now, and I hear a beautiful whirring, speeding past my ear as I begin to open my eyes. White snow, fresh off the throat of the world. Beautiful scenery, flashi- Oh hell. No, no, no, no. Faster and faster, the screams of shouting and screaming air cold as ice fills my lungs, choking me in such a way I never felt. I honestly knew fear. Terror. Surely, Jyggalag remembered I was mortal before dropping me in some backwater place, right?

It was with these last thoughts, that I, Sheogorath, now simply 'Sheo', plummetted from the skies above the Throat of the World, and ventured into Skyrim. I am proud to say I did not lose myself until the last moments as I fell from such great heights. I did, however, scream like a little girl. And only then, blacked out.


	2. Bobmin! Page Two: Welcome to Helgen

**Reviews have a purpose... I don't really know. Remind me to write next time I'm too busy reading fanfiction like you are? I have no idea how the great fanfic authors keep to their guns when I work twelve hours a day, but I'm dedicating these chapters to them.**

Daedric Gods: **I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!**

Shouts/Actions: **FIIK, LO, SAH!** _(Mirror, Deceive, Phantom!)_

Translations:_ {You Can't Be Serious.}_

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><p><strong>H<strong>ours passed, but the unlucky streak visiting Sheogorath seemed to have all the tenacity of an overdue house guest. His mouth tasting of pig bristles and mead, the sputtering of a cold pitcher of water snapped the mortal into consciousness. Come to think of it, why did he know what pig bristles tasted like anyways?

Blistering cold and now dripping wet clothes awaited him, the fallen deity jerking up with a start only to trip over some bindings and fall face first into a mat of hay. Snickering broke out above his silver hair, and the echoing of wooden spokes screamed civilization to such a joyous extent that he almost didn't feel the thick nord bindings severing the blood flow from his wrists. Most odd, but the sounds rolling over his head sounded suspiciously like...other captives, maybe?

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

A sound invaded from above as Sheogorath stumbled back into a chained wagon seat, a gaunt figure of a warrior leaning forward to stare the madgod down from... the front of an imperial prison wagon. Mountain mists clung to his throat through bleary eyes hazed with disbelief, but finally the demented mortal stared at his new accomplice after a few shakes of an armored wagon driver checking on the prisoners from time to time. Ravens stormed out of the nearby forestline as the dirty blond haired nord spoke once more.

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." The ragged prisoner scoffed lightly, only for the man next to him and a gagged nobleman to jerk upright with a start.

"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy." He monotoned, clearly depressed and angry with his fate. "If they hadn't been looking for you I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

Snapping his neck so hard that Sheogorath winced, the thief balefully turned an indignant gaze to the disbelieving madman. "You there. You and me- we shouldn't be here. It's these 'Stormcloaks' the Empire wants."

Sheogorath opened his mouth to give a suitable vagrant reply considering his last throughts before Jyggalag's banishment were 'thieves knickers', but the other fellow once again spoke before he could answer. A snort rose up from the ragged nord, a disbelieving jaunt to his voice that sent cruel shudders of reality down the madgod's spine.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The whip of a broken whinny from the horse rose up in clammour before the cart driver in imperial raiment threw his voice into the fray. Harsh, stoic, and...well, to the point.

"Shut up back there!"

A brief moment of silence was honored before the thief drew in close, gesturing to the gagged nobleman with something akin to fear laced with curiousity.

"And...him? What's wrong with that one?"

The backhand of the nord's elbow smashing into the thief's jaw made Sheogorath silently cheer in the cold, the haunted chuckle of the driver showing his own mirth at their scuffle.

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king."

Okay, now this was getting ridiculous. Ignoring the nobleman's murderous stares, Sheogorath himself quickly cut himself into the conversation. Silver tongued and eloquent as ever, the demented mortal cut a swath through the conversation like butter.

"Please, he's a gagged prisoner, probably bound for the executioner's block too, and he's as much a king as the Gray Fox. If he lives, then oblivion... *I'll* just take the throne, the fraxing cold, and all the cheese in this land...hang on, this is...Skyrim!"

Quiet as the grave, then laughter. It came pouring out, humorless and expectant while the now purple faced Ulfric just stared him down. With a ragged bow accompanied by the clink of chains, the other ungagged Nord gave a wry smile to his 'brother in binds'.

"Well now! Were it that easy, you could certainly seduce the throne's widowed as well, eh? Since we've naught more to live for, consider me your first subject on our way to Sovngarde, *your majesty!*"

The former stormcloak broke out helplessly in mad giggles, oddly comforting his last moments with a rather disbelieving display to the nobleman who pointedly ignored him. Surely even Ulfric had to understand the last words of a dead man needed to be brought a little mirth, but the straightforward gaze of the madman was a staredown of eyes almost...serious?

"Good. Then you'll be my Haskill!" Sheogorath boldly prounounced as they passed a gateway, a horsebound imperial saluting to a ravishly cloaked soldier in heavy armor.

"General Tullius sir! The headsman is waiting!" he cried out, the thief breaking out into worrisome whispers and cries, eyes now wide open in fear. Without even turning his head, Sheogorath's eyes slanted as the cart wheeled around the fortress tower to the back. A balding man, the General rolled his eyes and waved off the messenger.

"Good. Let's get this over with..." he moaned lavishly, bored to tears while the unnamed nord sounded out the title Sheogorath bestowed.

"Hash...kiln? Haz...nil...Has-Killed! A good name, breton!" He boldly laughed as the madgod swung around incredulously, mouthing the word breton silently in disbelief before the cart jerked to a stop. Has-Killed then turned to whisper in the madman's ear as they were prodded off the wagon soundlessly.

"But nevermind that... welcome to Helgen, 'your majesty'. End of the line."

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><p><em>Reviews:<em>

_Bruised Egomaniac: You know what's really fun? Stabbing Sheogorath in Shivering Isles, Oblivion. Something tells me your enjoyment at freefalling would create an experience... to die for._

_DialACow: Forgive the man behind the curtain here, but if enough people want it I'll fix something up with Sheo meeting the new Madgod in Solitude. Nonetheless, feel honored to disarm me! Sheo has your review on speed dial!_

_Akila-Delpanther-Draconian: What? I don't even... egads, dear mortal! Your name's spelling causes horrors already! Why do you need me around? Kidding, kidding. Have a troll meat pie._


	3. Lionheart! Page Three: Interruptions

So many decisions. Should our madgod meet a jester and his Mother on the way to whiterun? Should Sheo learn a new Shout? Your reviews, your calls.

**ALERT:** Special edition, second release within one day. Your reviews made me smile. Er...do I need any other reason?

Daedric Gods:** I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!**

Shouts/Actions: **FIIK, LO, SAH!** _(Mirror, Deceive, Phantom!)_

Translations: _{You Can't Be Serious.}_

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><p>Toeing his own line into the dirt in a somewhat pouting rebellion, the mortal madgod slowly rose to his shaking feet, still unaccustomed to being withheld from any sort of magika or abilities. It was all a terribly worrisome endeavor, moving around on one's own soon to be cleaved head, and Sheogorath idly contemplated the meaning that he might very well be the shortest lived mortal god to ever be struck to Skyrim.<p>

Then again, Tamriel was annoying like that. At least he had a new Haskill.

A stout woman, more dwarf than redguard, slowly approached with sunburt skin and autumn hair. With a strange look at the demented man followed by the purse lipped nobleman, she slowly shook her head and pointedly glared at the declared 'Stormcloaks' gathered for this momentous occassion. Their own deaths, festive enough really.

"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time!" she bellows ruthlessly, an odd glint to her eye as if daring us to make one step out of line. With a wild yell of desperation, the thief strains against his restraints and dashes towards the city gates. Poor sod.

"I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" He screamed, damned near foaming at the mouth from malnuitrition and survival instinct. His tattered cloak fell to pieces as the female warden raised her hand, almost free of Helgen. One step at a time, one step at a time...!

"You're not going to kill m-HRK!"

The warden's hand came swinging down, and the thief dropped like a ragdoll, a sky full of arrows burying themselves in every inch of his body. Clouds of dust spilled around the blood pooling beneath the man, and for a moment Sheo felt something akin to pity. Yet that vanished like a moth to the flame- he had gone just as fast as the executioner's axe. Like a barely drawn blade, the redguard cooly gazed at each of them like a bloodhound on a scent.

"Anyone else feel like running...? Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm." The scribe next to her called out sarcastically, waving his hand as the disgruntled nobleman stepped forward towards the headsman. His sneer belayed any grace to his compatriots, and Sheo vaguely compared the Jarl's langly gait to that of a peacock strutting its feathers.

"Ralof of Riverwood!" he calls out expectantly, the ragged nord giving his fellow madman a wink as he walked forward slowly, pausing near the warden as he addressed the scribe. "Ralof Has-Killed, now. Sovngarde cares little during the last rites, and I would give comfort to our newest compatriot who seems to have lost a comrade of his own."

With a start, the scribe peers forward over his scroll as if to declare 'As you Wish', but pauses to glance incredulously at the wagon's occupants. As if on que, Sheo proudly mimiced the nobleman's pose while Ulfric turned from purple to a sickly green but the scribe cared little.

"Er...you. Yes, you. Who...are you?"

Sheogorath blinked. Once. Twice. Then grinned.

Oh he imagined himself a roaring Kajit, a fiesty female barmaid, maybe even a crafty hunchbacked Imperial, but it seemed as if the ability to freely choose what he looks like was hardly the normal aspect of being a trifling mortal in Tamriel, so he simply deigned to look like a silver haired wicked drunk who was trying oh so very hard to look sober when faced with such delicious mania.

"Sheogorath, sir scribe and beautiful milady. Charmed."

Like one of his Dark Seducers who guarded the god's dementia, the warden herself lit up like a torch at his words, flustering silently over the attention even as the scribe just blankly saw him with uncomprehending eyes.

"The... God of Madness." he repeated, as if clarifying this for his superiors who would doubtlessly be unimpressed by the prisoner's choice of nominclature. With a self satisfied shug, Sheo bowed as low as his restraints would allow and walked towards the headsman.

All the scribe could do while the warden gathered her composure was slap his face on the edge of his palm and wipe away the troublesome memory as fast as he could. Rolof whispered into Sheogorath's ear as the ceremony began, mumbling over the words to his mad friend.

"Sheogorath...? Named after a god? For that matter how did you end up with us anyways...?"

The scribe chuckled as the moment passed, waiving for the executioner to continue, a roar sounding through the hills as Sheo's lips tightened. Oh hell, couldn't be. They were rare. Rarer than rare, not heard of in centuries, he should know! The roar echoed through the hills as a few of the gathered onlookers nervously looked about, but the imperials continued their execution under the bored eyes of the general himself.

But Sheogorath's fears sharpened as the first prisoner's head was set free from his shoulders, falling idly into the bucket. The water itself coiled and trembled in the headsman's bucket- and all too few people here seemed to recognize the signs.

It was obviously, OBVIOUSLY, a Festival of Giants right outside the fortress! With Mammoth cheese and sheep belly flagons, oh they were missing out! Lines, rows of human kabobs and and... Fools, the lot of them!

With a heavy heart, he slowly stepped up to the headsman's blood stained block, a silent tear curling under his eye as Sheo saw flashbacks of his life. Falling into Skyrim, faceplanting wagon hay, meeting his new Haskill! He had lived a long, short life. Oh woe, and still not a chance to breed khajit with humans to make a catgirl. Sad.

His hair ruffled in the stilling wind as he gazed up at the clouds. So...pretty, swirling in the skies as if to mock a madman's death. He never would have a chance to love, marry, and strangle another beautiful lass with her father's entrails. And still those clouds spun.

**"...LOK!"**

Faster and faster they spun, rolling almost...oddly. Ripping now, bursting through the wind like a hurricane, resembling the beating of massive wings as the Executioner lifted a crimson soaked axe. Some rude guards were interrupting Sheo's death moment in the distance with arrows and screams, but he paid them no mind. Honestly, young folk these days.

**"...BAH!"**

The air whipped like a living thing as the air heated up like a redguard matriarch's harem, his eyes now burning and squinting as rocks began to fall from above. Despite the crumbling stones around him and these rude people who kept the madman from his newest deathday, it all seemed very inappropriate to start ragnarok without him at least dying first!

**"...TOOR!"**

That was IT! Now the headsman himself stumbled over the block and just thrice thalmar chopped his own head off before having the decency of removing the weight on Sheo's own shoulders! Angrily, the madgod focused all his rage into a pint of brandy spared lips and struggled as furious words pounded out from his tongue.

"Alright, who's the wise imperial? I've never died before AND I'LL BE DAMNED IF I LET YO-" he started to snap off his restraints to the block and turned to furiously admonish the mortal that thought it was fun to start messing with his magika before letting a guy die in peace, only to stop and stare.

Meteors were showering the once quiet military parade grounds of Helgen, dead bodies littering the earth with bits and pieces of flaming limbs and oblivion rock. A towering lizard of cold steel and wicked fang breathed strong enough to bear down the centuries through Sheogorath's eyes lay perched abreast of the burning fortress walls, and it took every inch of undiscipline in his fine boots for the madgod to not stop and stare. The cold blooded creature of colossal scale coiled closer- mere horseshoes away from the bearded 'breton' before it; a glint of curiousity in that forked tongue that slowly coiled around the god's neck.

And as the mortal god stared blankly in the eyes of Tamriel's first Dragon in centuries, he very much began to think there was never a festival of giants at all.

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><p><em>Reviews:<em>

_Gentle: Only six? I'm afraid the only point I get is the very pointy end of my sword. Here! Have a closer look... Closer... Closer..._

_DialACow: And not driving you crazy? Oh, that won't do, not at all! Still unsure as to how this 'Dragon' will be approaching Sheogorath for the first time. Its all very crazy, you know._

_Akila-Delpanther-Draconian: Yes, very nuitritional. Its made from real trolls on the internet, you know. Tasy things, aren't they?_


	4. Rorschach Blot! Page Four: Your Services

A forward? Of course I don't own Skyrim. Sheogorath does.

Daedric Gods:** I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!**

Shouts/Actions: **FIIK, LO, SAH!** _(Mirror, Deceive, Phantom!)_

Translations: _{You Can't Be Serious.}_

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><p><strong>"Dovahhkin..."<strong>

Hungry eyes eagerly sampled the doomed madgod slowly, slitted eyes of blood caked with a supernova of yellow as bright as the sun stroked over every inch of Sheogorath slowly from the scaled hide of a beast that put the mammoths to shame. A spiked tail whipped through the Helgen Fortress as ribbons of steel claws tear into the stomach of the warden, paralyzing the audience. Second passed, ages to the madgod ensnared in the creatures tongue, but then all chaos descended as fire burst from the creature's lips to lap at the fortress in a funeral pyre for every last person there.

"What in the name of Oblivion is that? ARCHERS, FIRE!" The balding general screamed impetuously, disbelief trailing his facial features like a man possessed. On que, a storm of arrows flew behind him as the dragon roared imperially, taking to the skies wthout the madman's weight. Beams of candlelit timber and wildfire soon separated the prisoners in a display of ferverent violence, temperature rising as many burned alive in the dirt and mud. Only one way out, a tower not too far nearby in the midst of this aerial raid, but screams as hundreds died shook the air to the beating of cold blooded wings.

"C'mon, CMON! Madman, get up! Sovngarde won't give us another chance!"

Half dazed, Sheogorath wearily broke from the mud and stumbled to his feet as Rolof took him under arm and broke for the keep under panting and sweat riddled with other men's death woes. The door slammed shut to apocalypse soon after, and the nobleman kicked the bar down in a hungry fury. Like wildfire, the doomed groans and moans of wounded were drowned out by the frenzy of their fates, Rolof gripping his leader's tunic in a dead grasp.

"Jarl Ulfric... What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages." A cold iron voice declared as he swung his arm down to break the contact, the furs lining the aging nord's back rippling from the fiery air. A clenched fist, as if slowly struggling to maintain his composure, waxed words of the nobleman's own disbelief at the situation. With a sly smirk painting the Jarl's face though, Sheogorath's suspicions grew by the second. What good were mortals to have men like this leading, when all they saw was opportunity and profit? Not even an easy joke was passed once!

A scream sounded from up the stone staircase, the dragon tearing its way inside like an eggshell broken open. Fire blazed along the keep peak, and it was all the prisoners could do to not lose their heads to panic. One, however, eagery drew his short sword and cut open the ropes tied around the madman's wrists. Rolof gave an wry smile to Sheogorath and gestured to the stairs while Sheo soothed the rope burns along his skin. Without delay, the pair rushed up to the top, where a scene would lay in Skyrim's history very well burned itself into their memories.

"Oh, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt... What has happened to our land?" Rolof moaned, moving a disbelieving hand to wipe the sweat the caked in the heat of the moment. Sheogorath himself siimply sighed in feverent disgust. Not a warm throne to enjoy, after all this... he'd much rather be in New Sheo. Maybe there was a throne in Skyrim he could lounge in for perhaps a night or two?

Pyres of human bodies and ravaged buildings crushed in hundreds lay scattered about Helgen Fortress. Everywhere you go, Imperials baked in their armor or uselessly fortifying the gates gave their lives as a cyroddil battalion marched on the devastation- arrows twanging harmlessly against the scales of a myth. The high mountain air came sharp and hard through the smoke, and their eyes wept unconciously to watch the scene.

All but one pair of eyes, which were focused on retribution in the chaos for earlier taunts. Brown locks absconded with destiny as a sword hilt slammed against Rolof's crown from behind, knocking them both to the edge of the tower ramparts. A cruel calculating gaze from above looked down, and Ulfric Stormcloak coldly spat on Sheogorath's struggling hand as he tried to hold on for dear life aside his new Haskill.

"M-My king?" Rolof Has-Killed weakly asked in the height of betrayal, wincing as the nobleman cruely slammed the heel of his boot into bone with an sickening crack in the palm. Like a concussion the Riverwood militia's eyes were barely open, but the act was quite hard to miss. The billowing robes of a cruel noble were leering down and the jarl spoke slowly, as if to an infant.

"Not yours. Rolof of Riverwood, your services are no longer required." The drawling and mocking tone of Ulfric bled over the man's boot like tar before kicking the pair down, down into the burning buildings below. And the haunted face of a commoner betrayed soon followed.

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><p><em>Reviews:<em>

_xUnDeadKittenx: All in good time. What demented kind of author would keep you waiting? Oh...right. Nevermind, then. A hint for your time though: This is not the last we'll see of Ulfric Stormcloak._

_Akila-Delpanther-Draconian: What *does* the world eater want with Sheogorath? A pity they were so...rudely interrupted. Pray he lives long enough to find out._

_deathshade37: Comments like that are what make me reply faster. Sheo is like... Clark Kent. Only boosting his ego makes him want to show off in more chapters. Silly, isn't it?_

_Bruised Egomaniac: Nonsense. Death is a conniving son of a mammoth who keeps taking the hard earned experience whenever you come back to life. He also owes me 14 dollars after the daedric god's poker night._

_Maralae: Sometimes I think I'm the only sane person in a world gone mad. Or Im terminally infectious! Call me when you make medicine sick, ah ha!_


	5. Allora Gale! Page Five: Wishes

Oh, my. Spent a few days after finishing to think of an author's name for this chapter! Not to mention had a story drabble I also uploaded this- where Sandaime reads the future of Naruto as predicted by the Ogama Sennin. Feel free, ye former reviewers, to toss some insight to see how I could do better. Cried myself to sleep on the tears of Halo Reach. Were you really thinking Skyrim would be as easy to survive with madness around? This isn't middle earth. But we'll pencil you in for 2:00 with the Balrog anyways.

Daedric Gods:** I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!**

Shouts/Actions: **FIIK, LO, SAH!** _(Mirror, Deceive, Phantom!)_

Translations: _{You Can't Be Serious.}_

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><p>The ground was dark, littered with ashen wood and tar; a hole in the thatched ceiling supported by only what seemed to be muffled moans and groans amidst the wreckage impacted by falling off a tower. A thrice cursed guard's keep, of all the insane and frankly PAINFUL events! Sheo would be proud, if he wasn't regretting being on the receiving end of Rolof's body cracking him into the wreckage. Pain roared through nearly every joint in the now mortal god's body, and the smoke burned his eyes like a choking mist.<p>

Rolof stirred in moaning delirium, his chest heaving labourously under a beam of wood and timber- but he seemed to be low enough for the escaping smoke to not choke his threatened lungs. The madman shiverred, wishing to leave this place as soon as possible, as it felt as if Sheo were impaled upon a pike of steel himself, a useless mortal head on a pike for Jyggalag to show as an example to the other Daedric Princes. And the idea itself sicked the mortal to the core.

"Pi...cough, cough...Pitiful. How many times must I come to a thread's length of having my life end before I start surviving these things...?"

**"Haven't figured it out yet, have you?" **A high pitched voice drawled out, a bark replying loftily as a pair of claws scratched at the wreckage near where Rolof fell. Sheogorath's brow grew damp with the thought of already hallucinating, but the now smashed open doorframe seemed all too...real to be imagined. The smoke still exiting the house, their rescuer's face was all but blackened with soot to be seen in the firey expanse. But as a soft finger traced his cheekbone, a malicious giggle rolled off a child's tongue before Rolof stirred- the pain leaving Sheo's body as soon as it had appeared.

**"The Answer is: As many times as you keep wishing to stand back up. All people have to do is get what they want, don't you think?" ** their saviour exclaimed, pointing over to his dog in earnest display. The eyes of the madgod fell upon his new Haskill beneath a pouting snout, and he grinned weakly before helping himself to his feet. If that were the case, all he'd want is to keep getting back up, right?

**"Challenge Accepted! You really should be careful what you wish for, sir..." **The childish voice murmured protectively from the doorway, a growling grimace from the mutt at his side helpless to warn their kinsman of what was ahead. **"You just might get it."**

Rolling his eyes humorously at the taunt, the king of the Shivering Isles waved off the sentiment to the visitor behind him- quick to remove his friend from the collapsed struture while there was still a chance. With a glance towards his surroundings as he limped towards the exit with Haskill in hand, Sheogorath turned to thank the pair but found there was really nobody left to thank.

They were gone. The boy and his feral companion had already left while his back was turned. But... who was he? Waking Rolof awake on the doorstep, the harsh morning sun bore down upon the pair returned to the warzone, and Sheogorath slapped the nord to reality with a banshee yell.

"WAKE UP, TWINKLE FREAKING TOES! I need to know you're not dead before I kill you, okay? WAKE UP!" The now freed prisoner earnestly declares, smiling as if nothing's wrong. His nordic friend blearily opens his eyes, only to recoil in pain as he's slapped again for his trouble.

"Hey, this is kinda fun... KHAN YEW HERE MIII-?" Sheo asks in a monotone as if secretly trying to extend his fun as long as possible. Slap, Slap, Slap. So many foul fish jokes could be made at this juncture, but the pissed off glare from the man on the ground more than made up for any invonvenience.

"I am awake. Thank you for your concern. Now c'mere, so I can slug you in the gut for that, son of a... an... imperial!" The new Haskill boldly declares with a rather pissed off expression that looked somehat to the color of a ripe prune. Fists only barely missing his cheek as he takes a few experimental steps, it seemed as if nothing was wrong with the warrior, but it never hurt to make sure right? As if to falsely alleviate the situation and only make it worse, he cheerfully relays such to his new friend.

"You look like the color of an overripe prune. Surely that can't be a healthy sign after being pushed off a tower?" The madman casually declares as he almost receives a fist to the ribs before his companion goes deathly white- the pair's run towards the main gates interrupted as he stops right in his feet, apocalypse forgotten.

"Ah... But, Ulfric..." he starts, holding a hand to his brow in vagrant disbelief, not noticing his new friend roll his eyes for the second time today and stretch his knuckles. "Oh, gods guide me, what happ-"

Another punch, right to the jaw, knocking him off his feet. Sheogorath smiled, looking down at the jaunty fellow's unreal expression to having his facts straightened out of him by a man more than twice his age. Reaving an idle hand through silver hair, Sheo popped open one eye to look the warrior down incredulously.

"He pushed you off. I call dibs."

One blink. Two blinks. The echoes of what appeared to be a twitching eyebrow successfully marking the completion of a heartful sympathy conversation flag to win Haskill's allegiance. Sheogorath simply turned around, and started sprinting for the gates where the dragon's roar grew louder across the fortress- Rolof stumbling after him to catch up.

And right as the pair ambled out of the house, hale and hearty as if their wish to live had been granted, only the spattered blood and torn purple cloth upon a timber that had been impaled through the body of a madgod, were left behind to mark a wish completed.

And towards escape.

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><p><em>Reviews:<em>

_xUnDeadKittenx: Then he's bound to be disappointed. The mercy of a madgod oft is rewarded with new followers, and who better to preach than Rolof himself? Might be a bit late with the next update since I strung a bunch in a row for all the cool reviews I got... Moving, eugh._

_Akila-Delpanther-Draconian: Normal behavior? Oh, no. That's asking too much. But I hear being the sole survivor of a disaster like our poor Ulfric often leaves room for...interpretation. Especially when the only other survivors are nasty, lying Imperials._

_Whatshisface v.2: Rest assured, being upstaged would be perilously...annoying. And Sheo wouldn't do that to you, would he? No... of course not. So sleep tight, and don't let the Dark Brotherhood bite!_

_Bruised Egomaniac: Somehow I'm not surprised- there's a reason I'm pacing all this to match everyone's ideas. You can have tea and crumpets with Alduin later; I fear he's booked full until next fus-ro-dah. Raincheck?_


	6. Mr Wizard! Page Six: Run Like Cabbage

I? I am not back to my senses, writing again. No, that's for far more awesome people. Like the people who kept favoriting and reviewing until I spent a month straight hunting down the guy who had my game, and even ended up typing this all on a mobile phone. Dear dragonborn, I hope this was worth it. This one's for all of you.

Daedric Gods:** I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!**

Shouts/Actions: **FIIK, LO, SAH!** _(Mirror, Deceive, Phantom!)_

Translations: _{You Can't Be Serious.}_

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><p><strong><strong>**-From Rolof Has-Killed's Diary-**  
>The ashen taste of burnt snow filled the air as the burning charcoal of our landing place simmered angrily in the dust. I turned back, unsure of myself. A nord, betrayed by his liege and left to perish. What was Sovngarde to think of me, a simple man, a huntsman from a wood cutting village that once had dreamed so high to change Skyrim... Only to fall lower than ever before in the eyes of my ancestors.<p>

Gods, I was pathetic.

Yet something gripped aside me, as my eyes watered from the sight of a little girl's doll trampled and torn in the wreckage. Was Vilad here, stirring her juniper berry mead when her home caved in on her? Or was she one of the unlucky ones who looked their death in the eyes as it ate her whole?

So much dirt in my eyes. Unseemly. Had to focus.

And what a world to focus on. Yet here, even amid the wreckage was a man filled with purpose. A new lord to serve . I... Hadn't thought too well of him before the execution block. But here he was, dressed in the most outlandish noble cloth in the realms, eyes alit like his crazed namesake.

Sheogorath. What a wonder. It would not be the last time his grim determination frightened me. Imagine, standing before a man so full of cheer and warmth, the next moment shuddering as he strides through the back alleys of Helgen and smears some of the soot on his face to backhand an imperial recruit like the club of a giant. I'd swear the poor boy flew.

It isn't his strength that concerns me. No, it is his mind. The man who just moments before claimed my service is like a daedra touched; a man possessed of so little reason that he made an Imperial's Voice of the Emperor nothing before the voice of the gods.

I snatch up a thick broadsword from the ground, shattered into spiked edges that would make a vampyr wary enough to kill. If my ancestors saw enough to have faith and send this Breton my way, then maybe even a broken sword like me...

I am cut off. My liege muttering about peacock ears before slamming us both against the barely entact wall of the alleyway. Opening my mouth in concern for my love of my wife, it is a bare flinch of my choking words dying in my throat when the Dragon perched over us, wicked scales and curved snout leering at the soldiers it baked with a lazy yawn of its maw.

They screamed, thrashing and muttering gibberish in their death throes as flesh melted and I cringed in almost sick horror, my lord brave enough for the two of us-ha, maybe a little opportunistic, as I hear him mutter about a perfectly good waste of armor. Maybe he had experience as a smith?

At once, the buffering of beating wings soar over us and our eyes avert to the side as if in contemplation to the talisman of mara. Sheogorath's eyes flicker dangerously in a snarl I could not understand, his lips wordlessly screaming some sort of hatred for the goddess of fertility, of love.

A moment passed. Maybe two. Chance giggles of insanity crept from my throat before we both dashed out of the alley. It was a death trap for a single burst of draconic flame. And so we ran. Ran, ran, ran. Bursting out from a few thatched straws and timbers, I could practically taste my lord's satisfaction when my jaw dropped.

An army of imperials, led by Tullius himself, shrieking and clanging, charging the bemused Dragon as their axes and swords fell upon thin air as it bit and slashed through their shields.

It was a bloodbath, though I stared incredulously as the gates swung open and archers died in droves as their mounts fell down the gullet of the beast. Diving for cover as a mage threw Oblivion magical to stall the beast, I could hear the gears turning in Tullius's head when he saw the newest arrivals to his little party. A legionaire was yanked from the rubble and shoved our way with little hesitance in his run around the Dragon's blind spot.

Lo and behold, it was the scribe from the executioner's block! Myself and milord shared a quirky grin before the hesitating imperial brandished his sword at us and led us deeper into Helgen- which wasn't a good thing, or so we thought.

"Hadvar, of Helgen outpost. Military governor, General Tullius declares his orders as such. 'Some here in Helgen call Horrific a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. He started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to pull him down and restore the peace. State your intentions- before we enter the tower to establish the safety of noncombattants, are you with Horrific Ulfric or-" The scribe declared, suspiciously staring at us before Sheo spoke.

"Ah, now here's a mite bit of interest, there be! You talk of Helgen itself betraying her owners, but is this not a miliitary establishment?" He coyly interrupted, leaning back against the fortress gates at swordpoint. His legs crossed, a beautific smile encroaches at the former prisoner's lips. "If the Imperials were, as they always be, so damn good at keepin' this peace of theirs, how come enough people wanted them out to start an entire rebellion?"

The scribe nervously pulled at his uniform, muttering about statistics and impossibilities while I stared daggers at th imperial. Sheogorath, whether pressed for time or just not caring, hurried on.

"Or what does it tell you when your own general believes his own fortress of Helgen will betray you? When the chanting of the last septim made your legions torture men for believing in Talos as a ninth divine? For that matter, Hadvar the Scrivener was it? Hadvar, if you were in the right... Why was a man to be executed today even when he never commited a single crime?"

The scribe's stammers finally ceased for a moment, and the poor imperial just slowly hung his head in fustration before casting his eyes suspiciously back and sheathing his sword while the rest of his allies fought and died.

"We do what we must." he replied cautiously, eyes glinting against the fresh fallen snow of the high north. With the dragon taking to air, it gave them a scant moment of peace while the archers were picked off one by one. The Imperials, seeing that a soldier had already been assigned to the 'civilians', swiftly departed to where they were needed.

"That so?" Sheogorath mused, the mad god slipping his tongues over the words as if they would flee when pinned down. A hint of Magika later, and it seemed as if his gaze was boiling, to where I stared at the wayward noble, his lips leaning close to the scribe's ear. "Where's the fun in that?"

A strangled sob escaped the poor soldier's throat, his eyes rolling back as if going mad from the notion before clammy peals of sweat ran down his forehead. Finally, after milord pulled back, whatever my new lord had done had left an expression of pure terror upon the Imperial dog's face. I idly wondered if he would teach me that trick sometime.

"By the eight divines, what more can I do then?! I'm just the son of a blacksmith, oblivion take you!" He whispers furiously, banging his breastplate with the back of his fist. "We know it isn't right, but there's no-"

It was that moment that I knew what I had to do. What I, Rolof, was born to do! Yanking the scribe by his sword hand, I drag him through the gates with a laugh.

"There is always an alternative! We leave!" I cried enthusiastically, Sheogorath's encouraging grin bolstering my confidence as Hadvar stared on in horror.

"L-leave?! Both of us, desert the Imperials, desert the stormcloaks? That is simply... Madness!" The blacksmith's son answered, his fearful gaze now convinced he was caught up in some outlandish conspiracy.

Sheogorath snorted, taking a piece of celery from his pocket and nibbling it without any concern, the shuddering earth noting what little time we had left as the cries of a myth clung like fog as it roared near. "Tyrants fall. Dictators die. Mammoths make delicious cheese chunks. If you don't like what options the world gives you, nothing's gonna change unless you stand up for what you believe in. Like me! I make pretty terrific divinity, you know. Just a reminder, in case you wanted to pray to me..."

Blinking repeatedly, the scribe stood torn before us, contemplating the Breton's words before finally throwing up his hands as if to give up his faith- lifting his helmet within view of his general, the commanding officer, and throwing it to the ground.

Gobsmacked, the veteran calmly raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Hadvar's grin spoke volumes. So did his piercing shriek, loud enough to wake the dead as the horrific drake battling the Imperials suddenly landed in front of the gates and nearly tore off another meteor shower in a blaze of glory immediately behind us.

"RUN! RUN LIKE A HEAD OF CABBAGE!" Sheogorath screamed. I needed no such prompting.

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><p><em>Reviews:<em>

_Dragonriderforever: Please. Ye act as if we have little more appearances than one. I'm partial to appearing as a talking tree on oft chance there's a pretty sapling around. Did ya really think we only showed our selves one way? How boring._

_Shabbacabba the Guest: Wah, yes, indeed._

_BigDaddyDelta: Would you kindly be a keepin' fellows I don't rightly know out of this? Not very A-peeling banana, though I'm sure there was much smushing to do in private._

_Shadowdragonarmor: Oh my. Saberkittens. Just for that, I'll introduce a pet for the Madgod later. Though what ever shall I name it?_

_Hypothetical Spiritual Entity: Hypothetically, I look forward to writing it._

_ConArtist 24-7: No refunds. Instead, have an undead skyrim bear and make sure to gouge out a new army for me, if you'd be so kind. I'd prefer if you make sure they bathe regularly though. Madness does not imply unleanliness... except in... everything. Just go kill some shiny things in my name, thankies._

_Master Of Boredom: Ye make a fine point, finer than a sword tip, aye. I be needing someone of the beta persuasion, but frankly? This may call for a story name change. Maybe even a revamp! Tell me, if I asked any reviewers what they would call this little tale, what gibberish might they offer my person? Assuming I didn't kill them first, actually._

_Akila: All in good time. And cabbage. You'll find out soon enough. Despite my irregular schedule, Sheo shall sing you goodnight in an unsuspicious bone graveyard until you never wake up :)_

_Spartan: Tonight. We dine. In formal wear. And possible horrible update lengths. Alas, how I look forward to writing on a netbook or somesuch where I can really update. One can hope, right? Or not. Haskill has no hope. Maybe a pillow with which to cry himself to sleep with. I'll consider it._


End file.
